Morpheus in Monochrome
by Diva-esque
Summary: Xander dreams in black and white.


**Morpheus in Monochrome**

_by aishuu_

Note: Set around Season Three.

* * *

Xander never dreams in color anymore, for which he is glad. When he was little, his dreams were vivid and full of wonder, but now all he sees is blood.

Blood has a strange texture, and even in black and white, he can tell what it is. There are usually people in his dreams, drinking from crystal goblets, but he knows what they're consuming. It's always blood, filing the riverbanks and painting the signs of the town in macabre splendor. He dreams of the ocean, the place he used to swim transmuted into something horrific. Even his childhood memories are not safe from the violence which has tainted his life.

Wading out, the ocean of blood is warm against his legs, and he can feel the throb of a thousand heartbeats against his skin, all those silenced because he wasn't quick enough, smart enough, strong enough. He's not the Slayer, but he bears responsibility too for the deaths that shadow the lives of Sunnydale's residents.

He could drown here, but there's always someone that pulls him back to shore. Sometimes it's the sound of Buffy's voice, calling on him for aid. Other times it's Willow, reminding him that they have a test tomorrow, and asking does he really want to die before he turns eighteen? Lately it's been Cordelia waiting for him to return, tapping her foot.

He wonders, sometimes, if this is what Buffy sees in her Slayer dreams, but quickly dismisses the possibility. Those rare times that she mentions to Giles that she's had a vision sound more confusing. He's glad his dreams contain no hint of prophecy, because he would go insane from it.

Sleep is not rejuvenating during the nights he dreams, and his time for rest is already limited by his nocturnal activities. Being a Scoobie is hard work and no reward, except the knowledge that he's being the best friend possible. When things are life and death, he likes the self-knowledge that he's strong enough not to turn away. He may not be as smart as Willow or Giles, but he's as loyal.

He falls asleep in his classes more than ever, but he's already gained a reputation for being a slacker. It's only through Willow's intervention that he's remained on the grade level at all. Aside from the occasional pieces of chalk thrown at his head, he finds it easier to sleep. It's daylight outside, and he doesn't need to fear as many bogeymen. Vampires and their ilk prefer the comfort of darkness.

He and Buffy have formed an unspoken alliance against the teachers, students, and especially Willow. While one dozes, the other pays attention to class, taking notes which they later compare against Willow's. A nudge to the back helps keep the other out of trouble; a well-timed hand in the air asking a question diverts attention. Xander's not sure how this arrangement came to be, but he's glad for it. Buffy trusts him to watch her sleep.

He still dreams of Jesse, although he's been dead for over a year. He dreams of Jesse in the sunlight, driving a Porsche and picking up girls. In his dreams, he knows Jesse is dead, and Jesse knows that, too. He wants to know if Cordelia is as good a kisser as he'd always imagined, and Xander tells him she's better.

Xander's learned to ignore the blood running out of Jesse's chest where he was staked. Jesse doesn't blame him, and Xander hopes that these might be real visitations. Jesse may be bleeding, but he's happy and has his soul. He knows, intellectually, that the Jesse he killed was already dead, but he will never reconcile himself completely. Jesse was the first creature he'd ever killed, however inadvertently.

He could hate Buffy for that, if he didn't love her so much. It hadn't been her fault, but there's a tendency for a man to want to kill the messenger. He never tells her this, because she needs him to be strong for her. He's one of the few people in her life that understand what she is, and he accepts this. He's living an exciting life, one that makes a difference even if people don't know it. He is almost content.

He could tell one thousand colorful tales, painting each with images of what he's seen, who he's killed. He matters, he knows, because there's few people brave enough face what he does and still be sane. He may dream of blood, but as long as his friends aren't the ones spilling it in real life, he can accept it. Xander doesn't miss his more ordinary dreams, because he knows the difference between dreams and reality.

Maybe his life is so exciting that his dreams don't need the color anymore. 


End file.
